Grief
by Sofia777
Summary: Sherlock tries to help John through his grief after Mary dies. Sad, angst and some Johnlock.


Hi all, this story was originally written as the final chapter of another one of my stories, but I think it might be better on its own…. It takes place after the Sign of Three, but before His Last Vow.

Disclaimer: I don't own. I barrow. I don't make profit, other than the happy feeling that comes with reviews.

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_Sherlock's POV_

Months passed after the wedding, and John and I keep a respectable distance from each other. Occasionally we work on cases together. Our friendship is different. More shallow. More boring. The intensity it used to have now only resurfaces briefly during extreme cases, right after the chase, after the catch, when we stand panting next to each other, him calling me 'brilliant' and 'idiot' and me just grinning at him, because I cannot do anything else when he looks at me like that. But those moments always fade in the seconds it takes us to catch our breath. They fade while we hail different cabs because Baker Street isn't his "home" anymore. They fade when he calls Mary to let her know he will be back in time for dinner that night.

And then Mary got sick…. Very sick, very quickly.

After her diagnoses she and John had spent time together knowing she would die. They had discussed practical matters. John went through different emotions I could not understand or deal with. He was sad at first, crying, drinking alcohol and crying even more. He showed up at Baker Street one night drunk and in tears. I told him to go away, but Mrs Hudson took him in anyway and let him sleep on the couch. I left before he woke up.

After that came the anger. He would be shouting and cursing, drinking alcohol and cursing even more. Saying things like how unfair the world was. I didn't know what to say to that either. It was annoying. Abusive. Several times I told him to leave and go shout at someone else, but somehow that only made him yell at me more.

And then she died, during the night, in her sleep. I know social procedures dictate me to comfort him. To tell him lies like 'she is in a better place now' or 'she wouldn't want you to bury yourself in grief' or 'she had a wonderful life, try to remember that'. But I simply cannot speak such utter nonsense. Besides, John would know I was lying.

The first days after his wife died John seemed to be holding up better than I expected. He spoke at her funeral. Tears streaming down his face but his voice sounded steady, coherent. He managed to comfort Mary's mother, who seemed heartbroken, and he received friends and family at his house, letting them trying to console him. It didn't work. I saw that, but they didn't. I kept my distance as much as I could. John's grief and intense sadness over losing his wife and unborn child radiated from him. It made me uncomfortable. However, I knew John would be offended if I stayed away too much so I made sure I was there often, in the background. I sat next to him on the couch in his house for hours. We didn't speak. He cried. I handed him tissues. Sometimes others would come and hug him, but they would leave at the end of the day and I would remain there, on the couch, next to him. Eventually I would tell him to go to bed. He would do so without speaking to me, without asking where I would sleep. I would stay on the couch until he woke up and came back down, sometimes just to check if I was still there.

This routine continued for almost a week, and then John decided to go back to work. People advised him against it, said it was too soon, but John returned anyway.

I was glad when John went back to work, because that meant I could go back to work as well. I dreaded sitting on his couch for days without anything to do! Things seemed to go back to the normal rhythm.

But today, two months after he returned to work, nine weeks after Mary's funeral, John is asking me if he can move back to Baker Street. He is standing in the kitchen, making us dinner. I don't want to eat but I know he will insist and I am not in the mood for an argument. I sensed there was something he wanted to talk to me about as soon as he came in, but this was unexpected.

'Why?' I ask, eying him from the couch. He is avoiding my look.

He shrugs. 'Because.'

'You're going to sell your house?'

'No!' He turns and faces me. 'It's just…. It hurts. Being in that house by myself. I am… sad. I feel like….' He gestures but when he sees me frowning he stops. 'You wouldn't understand.'

I nod. 'I probably don't but that has never stopped you from trying to explain emotions to me before.'

A hint of a smile flickers in his eyes. 'Fine, Sherlock.' He sighs. 'I feel like I am torturing myself being in that house alone. Everything there reminds me of Mary. I smell her, I feel her, I wait for her to come home….' He stops. His eyes are watery again. He is right. I don't understand that feeling.

'It was the same' he continues, 'after you… died.' He murmurs. I look up, we never talked about that before.

'I left Baker Street because everything here reminded me of you and our life together. I had to move on, to make a new start, a new life.'

'And now that the new life doesn't work out you want to come back here.' I conclude. He looks at me. Angry? Insulted?

'I am not just running away from things that don't work out, Sherlock.' He spits. 'My wife _died_. And unlike you; she will not come back.'

I stare at him. Trying to make sense of these feelings, but I don't get it at all, and he notices.

'Whatever. Forget I said anything.' He turns to continue the cooking. 'I will just find myself another flat somewhere.'

'Oh don't be dense, John.' I say while leaning back on the couch. 'Just because I don't understand the _emotions_ behind your desire to live here doesn't mean you can't move back. You're an acceptable flat mate, and you can help me out with cases.'

He mutters something but I ignore it. It will be good to have a dependable assistant again. I watch John as he is cooking me dinner. He is still sad, heartbroken, grieving… I should try to fix him. Isn't that what friends do? Apparently he expects something like that from me. Why else would he move back here and not stay with someone more _comforting?_ Perhaps I can persuade him to leave that boring hospital job and accompany me on cases full time again, like before. It will take his mind of his feelings. It will make him feel alive again, like the old days. It will distract him. That's what friends do, right?

_John's POV_

I moved back in to Baker Street. Of course I knew it would not really improve anything, but it feels good to live somewhere else, to live with Sherlock again. He has been very supportive, in his own way. I know he doesn't understand feelings like grief, sadness, heartbreak… but I see he tries to be there for me and that helps.

Weeks pass and slowly, things get better. I am going on cases with Sherlock again, working only part time in the hospital, and the excitement helps me not to think about the dark, painful hollowness Mary's death left me with. However, there are still those moments, those moments that I am overtaken by pain. That I miss her so much I want to scratch out my heart with my bare hands because that will hurt less than missing her. I try to hide those moments from Sherlock. He notices, of course, the man is practically a mind reader, but I don't want him to feel like he should respond to it. We both know _feelings_ are not really his area and when I think about him trying to say something comforting I get an irking, unpleasant feeling. No, I don't want him to speak about it at all.

_Sherlock's POV_

John is still sad. It has been months now and I still see the pain of grief coming over him in waves. He hides it from me because he knows I have nothing to say to it, and I really don't. Not a clue. But it bothers me. The fact that my John is not okay bothers me. He is struggling and I feel a strange desire to help him, to fix him. It is a feeling I never experienced before and I have no idea how to deal with it. I looked up information about grief online. I found things to say to someone who is grieving, but it is all rubbish. And even if John will not think it is rubbish, he _will_ think its rubbish when I say it because he knows I don't mean it. But I do mean _something_ I just don't know how to express it.

Today, after John and I examined a body at the morgue I see Molly approaching us. She wants to support John, but, like me, she does know what to say, I can read her insecurity in her eyes. But then she does something unexpected…. She doesn't speak. She just takes his hand and squeezes it softly. 'John…. I'm so sorry', she whispers. John thanks her, as he politely does to everyone expressing their uncomfortable and useless sentiments to him. I expect to see the insincerity in his eyes, but not this time. He looks at their hands and squeezes back. 'Thank you, Molly' he says again.

I observe_. Touch_… John responds to touch…. Interesting.

_John's POV_

It comes suddenly, without any apparent reason. Pain wells up inside of me, cloaking my throat and stinging in my chest. _Mary_, _dear, sweet, wonderful Mary. Come back to me! Please come back to me! I'll do anything for you!_ I am standing in the kitchen. Sherlock is lying on the couch. We just got back from the morgue. I offered to make tea and the detective, without a word, flopped himself on the couch and is – undoubtedly – thinking. I grasp the counter and inhale deeply to fight back the tears. Damn it.

Suddenly, completely unexpected, Sherlock is next to me. I avoid looking at him. What does he want? Is he really going to break our routine of me grieving in silence?

Without speaking, without looking at me, he slowly places his hand over mine. His hand is cold. Unfamiliar.

I know how awkward this must be for him. He despises touching others. I pull my hand anyway. I don't want his pity.

'It's okay, Sherlock. I am okay.' I whisper and I want to turn away, but he grabs my arm. Not harsh and demanding like he does when he wants my attention in a case, but softly, gently. 'John…' his voice is low, 'you are not okay. Don't lie to me. I know you are hurt and I also know nothing I say will make it better so I won't embarrass us both by trying.'

I want to laugh but the sound that comes out of my throat is more like a cry. He continues.

'I want to… help you…. Let me just try this… It is the only way I think I am capable of being supportive and I _want_ to be supportive for you, John. But I want it to be sincere.'

I don't say anything. I can hear him struggling through these words, asking basically for my permission to… to what? Touch me? Comfort me by taking my hand?

I nod. We don't move. We don't look at each other. His hand slides from my arm to my hand, holding it. His thumb makes slow circles over mine. We stand like this in the kitchen for hat feels like hours. It is not an uncomfortable feeling, it is just very unfamiliar.

Eventually he rests his thumb on my wrist and I know he is taking my pulse to see if I calmed down. I did. I take a few deep breaths before I slowly pull my hand away from his.

'Tea?' I ask hoarsely.

He nods and returns to the couch.

_Sherlock's POV_

That was successful. Very successful even. It wasn't even as uncomfortable and unpleasant to touch him as I thought it would be, and it was much better than attempting to say anything consoling. I have always known it is much easier to lie in actions (like touch) then in words, but I used to consider myself equally skilled in both. However, apparently when it comes to John Watson words are more difficult for me. I find myself reluctant to lie to him, but willing to offer support which he clearly needs. I didn't see a way to do one without the other, but holding his hand seems to be effective.

I lay back on the couch while John brings me tea. I read his mood. Of course he is still in pain, but I can see he is calmer than before. Soothed. Good.

More weeks go by and we get into a new rhythm. A rhythm I never thought I would find myself in. A rhythm I never thought I would be so comfortable with…. After the successful experiment with holding his hand I continue to do so on a regular basis. Mostly when I notice his distress and pain, but sometimes as a preventive measure, when I know the case we worked on has affected him, or when we encounter something that could remind him particularly of Mary. It is a lot of work and it requires me to watch him carefully, but it seems to be very effective. I am proud of the results of my efforts and surprised by how natural and easy it has become for me to touch him. How warm and tingly it makes me feel… How I have been wanting to trace my fingers from his wrist to the rest of his arm, exploring the white skin underneath his jumpers… I don't do that, of course. It is just a thought…. A very strange unfamiliar thought that must be part of the general strangeness that comes with touching another human being…

I avoid taking John's hand in public because I know it makes him uncomfortable. For some reason he cares deeply about what _others think_. But this morning there was a moment... a moment in the morgue after he had examined the body of a man whose wife came to us because he went missing. John had determined the body was indeed the missing husband. He washed and dried his hands… When I saw how he threw the towel in the bin I know he was hurt. I knew he needed me but I couldn't take his hand. However, I couldn't fight the urge to touch him! So before I could stop myself I walked up behind him and placed my left hand on his elbow, while leaning in close to him. 'John…' I whispered in his ear. He took a deep breath and straightened his back.

'I'm fine, Sherlock.' He said, placing his hand briefly over mind before stepping away. 'I am fine.' And he left.

He was not fine. I knew it.

Even Molly knew it. She made a comment about the way I had touched John. I ignored it.

Then she commented on John being "not fine". Unnecessary. I know my John. Of course I saw he wasn't fine.

The she commented on me being "not fine" because John wasn't. I looked at her. She was right. When did that happened?

_John's POV._

As soon as I arrive back in Baker Street I lean back to the kitchen wall and bury my head in my hands. I want to cry but I know the tears will not make me feel better. Sherlock's touching as a way of support has been effective, but at the same time it has subdued my grief. I don't calm down anymore when he touches me. I feel how my whole body, all my senses, focuses on the part of my skin that he touches. When he whispered in my ear just now… when I felt his breath in my neck, felt how close he was to me… I know there are other feelings lurking inside of me, feelings I want to ignore. Feelings I hate myself for. Feelings I cannot stop, unless Sherlock stops touching me….

I bend over, inhaling deeply to calm myself. It does not work.

Vaguely, I hear the front door open and footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock is home.

Damn it. I can't let him see me like this. For despite all his good intentions he will be at lost on how to help me after I tell him to never lay a hand on me again.

'John?' Sherlock's voice sounds unstable. I was right. He is at loss on what to do with me now. I don't care.

'John?' I feel him nudging my arm. 'John, please.' He begs.

But I can't.

'Just go away, Sherlock.' I say in a chocked voice. But he doesn't leave. He just stands there, looking at me in a strange way.

_Sherlock's POV._

I can't watch this. Not because it is painful, as I am sure it is for most normal people, but because I don't know how best to respond to it. John mutters I should go away, and that is very tempting. I wonder why I don't just do as he says, leave now and come back home later pretending this didn't happened. If it was anyone else I would have done that! But John… my John. I know he doesn't want me to leave, no matter how much I want too, or how often he tells me to leave.

But, dear God, I don't have a clue what to _say_ to him.

So I do the only thing I know I can be sincere in: I touch him. I lean in to take his hand but he moves away from me.

'No, Sherlock.'

I frown. 'John….?'

'I can't… I can't.' He chokes. 'It's not right. It's not fair. I feel… different. It's not just comforting to me anymore. I….' he takes a deep breath, 'I _want_ you to touch me.'

He makes no sense at all. Why is saying this to me?

'And I _want _to touch you.' I say. His emotions have shifted, this I know, but to what….?

'Sherlock….' He breathes.

I move forward towards him. He avoids my eyes. I place my hands on his elbows and lean in until our foreheads touch.

'You don't understand…' He mutters.

'I don't care.' I say truthfully. 'I am not letting go of you. I need you, John, so it's fine. _All fine_.'

He closes his eyes. I feel him relaxing his body. Finally.

'John.' I mutter. 'My John….'

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